


peel back my skin (heal my broken ribs)

by bytheinco_nstantmoon



Series: the wrong shit at the right times [1]
Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Aged-Up Losers Club (IT), Author Is Sleep Deprived, Bisexual Eddie Kaspbrak, Deaf Stanley Uris, Depression, Disabled Character, Eddie Kaspbrak Loves Richie Tozier, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Everyone Is Gay, Getting Together, I Was Drunk When I Wrote This, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, In case you were wondering, Insecure Richie Tozier, Internalized Homophobia, Jewish Richie Tozier, Jewish Stanley Uris, Love Confessions, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Richie Tozier Loves Eddie Kaspbrak, Richie Tozier is a Mess, Richie Tozier's Internalized Homophobia, Sexual Tension, Soft Richie Tozier, Suicidal Thoughts, Trilingual Richie Tozier, Ukrainian Richie Tozier, a lot of this is actually just series stuff thats vaguely ghosted in this but bear with me ok, actually wait, and richie is weak for it, author is gay, because bi eddie rights, bilingual Richie Tozier, bill and stan r also gay but they get their own story so its just a tidbit here, but its explicitly mentioned, but that aside, but there's like two (2) mentions of it, canon isn't real anymore, dialogue heavy sorry, everybody except eddie and richie is only part two, everyone is an immigrant and im not sorry, for those that know the distinction ig, fucking hell this is too many tags, i also write poetry, i am making up all sorts of tags!!!!, i included chapter titles even though there are only two chapters, i see i am the first to coin this tag, idk - Freeform, im sorry, its just post canon idk theyre like 16, just so you don't get any false expectations, like there's no actual sex, mlm richie tozier???????????, no beta we die like men, no its like, not deaf but Deaf, not like super super there, ok im actually done now, ok is that actually all the tags now???? i think so, part 1 is just kinda venty i won't lie, shit wait, sorry for all the tags, st and tgf aren't actually in this installment this is just part of a series, tgl is me, that's part 2, the difference between honesty and the truth, the summary is too short for all the tags ASDKIFFNKERG, the title is a reference to a singular line in the story no i don't know why i picked it either, they're in love but they're dumb, this is so many tags what the fukc, wait again, wearing each other's clothes is Tender, who let me touch this fandom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:13:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23236012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bytheinco_nstantmoon/pseuds/bytheinco_nstantmoon
Summary: Richie just might lose it. Eddie can't have that.--"something gently soft and sweet/everlasting in my heartbeat/that carries me on tired feet/that spurns me evermore along/distantly dictated to your heart's thrum"-"my love", t.g.l--"Just say it," Eddie snaps, but there's no bite, and it's as fragile as glass. "If you don't want to be friends anymore, just say it, ok?"He hates the truth, hates how it reduces him, how it thins his voice and makes his lungs burn.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, The Losers Club & Richie Tozier
Series: the wrong shit at the right times [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1670638
Comments: 19
Kudos: 129





	1. my nerves are full of you

**Author's Note:**

> warnings because my tagging system is shit!!!!!
> 
> -there are like two (2) references to sex. no explicit sex or sex that's actively implied to have happened, but like.. two Thoughts of the Sex  
> -some mild internalised homophobia, but not really in this chapter? that's more chapter 2  
> -there are some references to suicide and a referenced to a suicide that is preplanned, but no suicidal actions and it isn't a heavy theme
> 
> this chapter is low-key kind of venty and I was also sleep deprived and drunk so li k e sorry bout it

Eddie is lecturing him on something- it's very important, probably. It's probably the reason he's here, because normally it's Richie that climbs through Eddie's window, not the other way around. He's been lecturing him on it for a while now and Richie has absorbed approximately none of it and to be honest, he's less interested in the words that are falling from Eddie's lips and more interested in Eddie's lips themselves.

He should yell at himself for thinking it. He doesn't.

Eddie is gesturing wildly with his hands, and his pretty face is all twisted up in annoyance, and he stamps his foot- he stamps his fucking foot. Oh god. Richie has to hold back a grin, because how cute is that? He always thinks Eddie has proven how cute he can be, and Eddie somehow always proves him wrong. He nods absently, trying to look like he's listening, not admiring the freckles along his friend's skin.

 _God, he's so pretty._ He wanted to reach out for him, knot a hand in Eddie's shirt and- oh. Oh. He shifted a bit, tilting his head. Eddie was wearing a black t-shirt, one a bit too large and with an ACDC logo. Richie's shirt. Richie's shorts, peeking out beneath it, and how hadn't he noticed. Richie's jacket, too, the jean jacket with the patches he'd put on himself, and even those fucking socks, pooling down around his ankles because they're too big for his skinny legs. Warmth pools into Richie's stomach, his whole body tingling, a sudden lightness jolting through him. Those are his clothes. Eddie is wearing his clothes.

"Richie!"

"Huh?" His gaze jolts up to Eddie's face. "Oh. Sorry." The smaller boy groans, his fingers twining into his own hair. Richie is hit with the urge to do that for him, to bury his fingers in his hair and tug him closer, mess it up, mess _him_ up, until his lips are red and swollen and his face is-

"Richie!" Eddie has stepped closer, glaring at him. "Just- just focus! Can't you listen to me? For once?" Richie blinks, then throws on a grin. His fingers reach out, and he indulges himself just a bit, taking grip of Eddie's shirt hem. His shirt, that Eddie is wearing.

"Sorry, Eds," he says, shrugging. "Got distracted. Cute shirt, by the way." Eddie glanced down at his outfit, frowning, and flushed bright red.

"I-" He looks at a loss for words for a moment. "It's comfortable."

Richie's fingers curled into the fabric more, yanking quickly and pulling Eddie down into his lap. He loops an arm around the smaller boy's waist, ignoring his yelp, his grin unwavering. "I know it is. It's mine."

Eddie opens his mouth once, then twice, then shoves at Richie's chest. "You're an asshole. Have you been listening to anything I've said?" Richie shrugs.

"Not really."

Eddie groans. "Richie!" His hands fly up, grasping Richie's face and pulling it down to look at him. "It's important." Richie huffs. "Please. I'm worried."

Richie tilts his head a little. "About me?"

"Yes! About you!" Eddie tugs at his ears, making him yelp loudly. "You would know if you had been listening!" Richie glared at him, letting go of the shirt (their shirt?) to rub at his ear. "Stop looking at me like that, freak."

"You're a freak," Richie mutters. (Eddie is right, though, because only a freak gets so distracted by his best friend in his clothes, only a freak pulls his best friend into his lap like this, only a freak stares at his best friend's lips all day and imagines what they taste like, imagines them bruised with use. Only a freak imagines pulling his best friend in by the waist and finding out. Only a freak wakes up from dreams of pinning his best friend against the wall, pinning his best friend against the bed, bending his best friend over the sofa, so many things, too many things that only a freak would think.)

"You're doing it again!" Eddie shoves at his shoulder. "Stop that! You- you keep getting distracted!"

Richie shrugs. "Just thinking." He expects Eddie to make a joke about not hurting himself, but instead the smaller boy just frowns. His whole body is taut. His thighs are tense against Richie's hips, which is- ok. He needs to not think about that. "Aw, c'mon, Eds. Don't be like that."

"You're thinking so much lately." Eddie's voice has turned so small. "You think all the time now." Richie doesn't know how to react. Eddie's eyes have fallen, staring down at the space between their chests. "You keep skipping lunch period to go think and smoke outside, but you never go to your usual spots anymore. I can't find you."

Richie's arm at his waist goes slack with surprise. "You were looking for me?" Eddie nods, but it's a tiny movement. "Shit, Eds, I-" He's quieted by a glare.

"I'm talking now," Eddie reminds him. Richie nods slowly. Eddie's eyes stay on his this time. "You won't come hang out with us at the quarry anymore," he says, sounding like he's trying to be annoyed, but Richie can feel him on the edge of trembling. "You said you didn't think your parents would be okay with it. You skipped movie night at Bill's. You skipped the movie night at _mine._ You cancelled our sleepover. You haven't been to the clubhouse. Stan says he saw you at the store and you were perfectly normal, but you said you didn't think it was okay to hang out, and you always hang out with Stan. You haven't picked up one of my calls in weeks." Eddie's voice has been steadily traversing upwards in pitch, and it cracks on the last one. "You're avoiding us," he says, trying to sound angry, but his voice is trembling and tenuous. "Do you think you know the reason why?"

Richie is silent. His grip has tightened on Eddie's waist, but his eyes are averted, staring blankly into the hollow of Eddie's throat. Normally Eddie's throat does things to him, makes him absently wonder what it would look like blooming with marks from his teeth, but now his mind is racing and he doesn't know what to think. He doesn’t know what he can think. He doesn't know what to say.

"Richie?"

Richie makes a noise, then looks up at Eddie, who looks half-angry, but the anger is quivering. He's _scared._ "Don't be so anxious," Richie whispers, reaching up to run a hand through Eddie's hair. "It's not a good look on you. Breathe, Eds."

Eddie does, draws in a breath that sounds like a sob. "Stop it, asshole. You're avoiding the question." Richie shrugs. "Just say it," Eddie snaps, but there's no bite, and it's as fragile as glass. "If you don't want to be friends anymore, just say it, ok?"

Richie hums, continuing his movement through Eddie's hair. The other hand wanders back to his waist, knotting into the shirt. "You're wearing my clothes," he says nonchalantly, even though his chest is frosted over inside. Eddie is tense. "You look good."

"Thanks." Eddie's voice is tight. Richie moves his hand from his hair, moving it down to rest on his back, tugs him closer.

"Why?"

Eddie shrugs awkwardly. His eyes are shiny like he's trying not to cry. "I missed you." It's almost not there, a breath of an admission that hovers lightly in the air. Richie hums again, thinking very absently about how he wants to swallow that admission straight from Eddie's lips. "Richie, please."

Richie smirks. "Please what?" he asks, just to be obnoxious. "I didn't know you liked to beg." Eddie's face melts into something furious, and he shoves him again, harder, but Richie's grip on him doesn't relent. "Hey, hey, I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Eds. It was just a joke."

"It's not funny," Eddie snapped. "You don't get to do this, Richie, you don't get to take advantage of people like this. If- if you don't want to be my friend, then- then-" his voice breaks off. "It hurts," he finally says. "You're just giving up. At least give me a reason."

Richie rubs his back gently. "I didn't say anything about not wanting to be your friend," He points out. "I mean, I don't." Eddie's entire face convulses, and he scrambles, trying to get away, but Richie holds him in place. "Eds. _Eddie._ " He takes a deep breath. "I-"

 _He's going to hate me,_ he thinks, and that stings, but then he remembers, _he already hates me anyway,_ and his resolve comes back.

"You what?" Eddie snaps. "What is it? I don't need any fucking excuses, Tozier, just let me go. I don't give a shit what you have to say-"

"I know, I know, but just-" Richie groans. "I'm trying, ok? This is just… hard." Eddie lets out an incredulous laugh.

"Hard?" he repeats, disbelieving. "This is hard for you?" He shoves Richie again, and _oh,_ there are real tears in his eyes. "You find it hard? Do you think it isn't _hard_ to be right here? You fucking-" he has to stop to draw in a breath, and Richie wants to say something, but his words are caught in his throat. "You fucking asshole. You- you- Fuck you. I'm- I came here and climbed through your window and I was wearing- wearing your clothes because I miss you, and I was thinking of you so I came to you, and-" There's the first tear. "I was thinking of you! Because I just- I just want my best friend to be happy, my best friend, you're my _best friend,_ and now I'm here and you don't want to be my best friend, you don't even want to be my friend, and you won't let go of me-"

"Eddie-"

"No!" His voice cracks again. "No, this isn't hard for you! This isn't hard at _all_ for you!"

"Eddie!"

"Shut up!" Eddie twists, and he's actually crying now, and Richie doesn't know what to do. "Shut up! Just let go of me! I-I wish I didn't fucking-" He wrenches, and Richie improvises, tightens his grip and flips them, presses Eddie down by his shoulder against the mattress. "Asshole!" He's getting kicked at now. "Just fucking- just let- I hate you! I hate you!"

"Shut up!" Richie shouts back. "Shut up and let me talk!" Eddie knees him in the stomach.

"You never wanted to fucking talk before-" Richie pins Eddie's wrist in his hand, ignores the stirring in his gut, straddles his waist. "What are you-" Richie slaps a hand over his mouth.

He takes a new breath in the silence. Eddie is staring up at him. His eyes are wide and wet and they look _scared,_ like he doesn't trust what's happening, like Richie is going to hurt him, and that hurts more than anything he'd said. "Eddie," Richie whispers, and fuck, ok, maybe he's crying too. "I'm sorry, Eddie, but it's my turn to talk, ok?"

Eddie nods very slowly.

"Ok. Thank you." Richie sits back, moves his hands. Eddie is still pinned beneath him, but he's propped up on his elbows now, and his face is open and pale and Richie really, really wants to kiss him, but he swallows the urge. "You gotta breathe, Eds," he says, because it's familiar, and he needs something familiar. "Don't panic." Eddie twitches. "Shush. No yelling." He brushes Eddie's hair off his forehead. "I'm trying to talk," he says, frowning. "But it's hard. Funny, ain't it?" He chuckles a little, but it's flat. "I just… it's hard to talk about this. About… you know. Feelings." He swallows. He wants to change the subject, but there's no going back now, not with Eddie staring up at him like that. "Honesty isn't my forte," he admits. "I, uh… I'm not very good at it."

"I know." Eddie's voice is glass again. There are new tears on his cheeks. "You're shitty. Asshole."

Richie laughs. "Yeah! But, uh…" he trails off, trails his fingers down Eddie's arm. "Fuck. I want to be honest with you, Eds. I really do. But now…" he takes in a shuddering breath, lets it out. "Now isn't the time." He grips the sleeve of Eddie's jacket. His jacket. Their jacket.

Eddie looks like he might yell again. "Now isn't the time? Now's the only-" Richie's hand falls over his mouth again.

"No, now is the time for the truth," he corrects, knowing he sounds insane. "It's not the time to be honest." He nods decisively. "I will be honest soon."

Eddie huffs. "Fine," he grumbles. "Give me the truth, then." Richie smiles at him. Eddie's eyes slip away. His face is red.

Richie scoots back a little so that he isn't hovering fully over Eddie and slips an arm under and around his friend's waist, pulling him up into a hug. "I missed you too," he whispers. Eddie's body is stiff against his. "I just need time to think."

Eddie whines, his hands hesitantly returning the hug. They settle around Richie's waist in the same place they always do, and it's familiar but sends a thrill up Richie's spine all the same. "That's the problem," he protests. "Why can't you think with me?"

Richie snorts. "'Cause you're always yelling at me. Distracting." Eddie huffs but doesn't defend himself. Richie's voice turns more serious. "'Cause I need to think alone."

"I need to know what you're thinking." His fingers curl into Richie's shirt. They don't usually sit this close, where his head is pressing into Richie's chest, where his breath is ghosting over Richie's neck like a butterfly. "Please."

Richie runs a hand through his hair and prays his heart isn't fluttering as hard as it feels like it is. "Why do you care?"

Eddie's reply is instantaneous. "Because you're my best friend." He tilts his head up to look at him. "Because I lo-" he stops, but they both know what he was about to say, and Richie's heart capsizes. Eddie pulls him closer after a moment. "I don't want you to leave me."

Richie rests his chin on top of Eddie's head. "I won't, Eds." It's flat. It's not a promise. "I just need to think about… friendship. In general."

"Have you been having problems with someone?" Eddie's eyebrows furrow and he can feel it against his shoulder. "An argument or something?"

Richie snorts. "Only you." Eddie doesn't reply to that. "No, I just… I don't know." He's supposed to be telling the truth, so he forces himself to set aside the joke he wants to make and forges ahead, feeling with each word that his chest is being peeled away, revealing a raw and beating heart among his fragile ribs. "I sit outside the cafeteria for five minutes," he admits. "Under the big tree in the back parking lot. Just long enough to smoke one cigarette, if I feel like it. Then, I, uh-" he doesn't want to admit this part. "I go back in the side door. There's a table in the corner of the cafeteria, where Donnie Carren and his friends sit, and they let me take a chair on the end."

"Donnie Carren?" Eddie sounds disgusted. Richie almost laughs. "I mean, nothing against him, I guess, but isn't he the guy that did a presentation on Tetris in Geography?"

"Hey, it was a pretty brilliant metaphor!" Richie defends. "Just nerdy!"

Eddie snorts, and it feels almost normal for a moment. "Nerdy? Bringing Tetris into Geography is beyond nerdy. It's downright dorky." They're silent again for a second. Richie senses his cue to continue.

He shifts, pulling Eddie closer so that he doesn't have to look at him. "I, uh… god, I sound like a creep. I just sort of… watched you guys," he admits. He keeps talking to ward off the interruption he feels coming from Eddie. "I talked to them about some stuff. Learned a hell of a lot about fucking Dragons and Dildos-"

"Dungeons and Dragons?"

"Yeah, that. It's kinda cool, actually, I think Stan would like it. But mostly I just watched you guys." His fingers are messing with Eddie's hair again. "I saw you leaving the past couple of days, but I figured you were going to take medication or take a piss or something. Didn't realise you were looking for me."

Eddie's hands are still twisted into his shirt. "Nobody uses the side door," he whines, his voice irritated. "That was unfair."

Richie nods. "Yeah. It was." Eddie's head has tilted into his shoulder and there are lips brushing against his collarbone. He wonders what that would be like if it were intentional, imagines teeth scraping over it too- fuck, right, he needs to focus. He's telling the truth. "I wanted to see what it was like. Without me."

There is a very long moment. Eddie's grip tightens, and when he speaks, his voice has tightened too. "You wanted to see us hanging out without you? Why?"

Richie shrugs hopelessly. "An experiment?"

"That's a sick fucking experiment," Eddie snaps. "Who cares what we're like without you?"

"I do." He licks his lips, staring blankly at the wall. "You said to tell the truth, so uh…" Fuck. "I think about that… a lot." The skin falls away. The ribs crack. "About what it would be like. And I think about it more now." Eddie has gone completely still. "It started with… with the lunch thing. And the first time I ignored your call was that night because I was thinking about it, and I couldn't get it out of my head." He hates the truth, hates how it reduces him, how it thins his voice and makes his lungs burn. "You all looked so _happy._ I watched you and Bev playing tic tac toe on a napkin like you always do and you cheered when you won and then you looked around like you were looking for something, and I remember thinking that you were looking-" his voice seizes up for a moment. "I thought," he manages, after the seizure of chill passed, ungripping his throat, tears leaking into the words, "I thought, "he's looking for me. I always say something when he wins, I always make a joke for him, I should go make a joke for him," but then you stopped looking. You only looked for a second. And you didn't miss it at all, but I felt like I had let myself down by not congratulating you. And you called that night and Maggie called me, but I said I couldn't… that I couldn't talk, because I couldn't breathe, Eds, I was too busy thinking-" he chokes, and there are real tears now, ones that are soaking into Eddie's hair. "Thinking _hurts,_ " he whines, and Eddie's grip tightens. "Because it made me realise too much."

Eddie pulls back just a little, just enough to reach up and pull Richie's glasses off. "It's annoying to get tears all over your lenses," he murmurs in explanation, setting them on the nightstand. His grip is shaking, and they fall on the floor, but neither of them pay it any mind. His hand rests against Richie's cheek. A small thumb rubs the bone, gentle and sweet and tender. "What did it make you realise, Rich?" and he does not deserve this boy, not at all.

It's easier to talk now that he can't see. "I'm so extra," he says, and it slips out quietly. The truth of it eases its passage. "I make all the jokes, right? And it’s so nice being with you guys. You tolerate my jokes. I like that."

Eddie tugs at his ear again, gentler. "I like your jokes."

Richie laughs. It bubbles with something like hysteria, and he shakes his head, shakes it again. "No, it's ok, Eds. It's the truth now, we're telling the truth now." He's rambling. He knows he's rambling. "It's ok," and that's the truth. "It really is ok," because Eddie needs to know. Eddie can be an asshole, but he's sweet, and he needs to know that it's ok, because if he feels guilty the world will end. "I know I'm not a good friend. And I know you guys are happier without me. And that's ok! It really is." He smiles. He can't see Eddie's face, but he's sure it's relaxed into understanding, into relief that Richie finally understands.

(It's not. It's frozen, twisted into something horrified, draining of colour until it's white, and his eyes are wide and staring blankly over Richie's shoulder and his breath won't come.)

"I'm sorry I put you through so much," Richie continues, his voice calmer. "You're important to me, Eds. Eddie." His lips curl into a smile, one that's soft, one Eddie has only seen a handful of times, one that genuine and true and unriddled with the weird rigid mask Richie wears. "I know that it's hard. You don't like change, you've never liked change." His fingers are brushing through Eddie's hair again, his cheek leaning slowly against his friend's head. "And this is really nice, holding you like this," he needs to stop talking, but he can't, the words are filling up his stomach and swelling through his lungs and spilling out over his lips like a waterfall. "You're perfect, Eddie."

Eddie jerks at that, makes a noise like a whimper, presses closer against him. "Richie," he whispers, and Richie laughs softly. "Richie, I-"

"No, no," Richie interrupts. "I have it all figured out, Eddie!" Eddie whimpers again, whispers something, but Richie keeps talking. "I've been thinking about it on and off for years, you know, because I'm stupid but I'm not always a complete idiot, and I know that we've all got our roles, you know? We're a group and everyone plays a part, right, and mine is being loud and making jokes and being obnoxious because that's what I'm good at. But it's not fun for you guys, and you look happier when I'm not there, and I saw Stan laughing yesterday and I don't think I've seen Stan laugh like that in years, and maybe that's not because I wasn't there but it definitely helped because Stan has always hated me even more than the rest of you, because I'm such a fucking mess and he can't stand messes. That's ok. But if that's my role, then… what am I meant to do? So I stick around and make you guys annoyed and miserable all the time? If I change, then it'll mess up the group dynamic, because you'll have to find a new role for me and that's a hassle."

"Richie-"

He continues like he doesn't even hear the interjection. "So I drop out, yeah? I stop sitting with you at lunch, just sit with Donnie and Clara instead of sneaking around back or some bullshit, and I stop going to hangouts and things. And you don't have to call anymore, which'll be a relief because you won't have to sneak around your mom and talk all quiet so you don't get caught. And it'll be like that for a couple of weeks, while I see if I fit better with them."

Eddie finally manages to get out something loud enough to cut him off. "What if you don't?" His voice is sharp. His hands are clutching Richie's shirt hard enough to cut off circulation. 

Richie hums. An absentminded kiss is pressed to Eddie's temple.

"I have that figured out too."

He doesn't keep talking. He gets a distinct feeling that he shouldn't say it, that Eddie wouldn't be able to help feeling guilty if he says it. He doesn't want Eddie to feel guilty.

There's a long silence before Eddie speaks.

"Richard."

Richie blinks. "What?" Hands are on his face, and he's yanked down, their faces close enough that he can make out the dark look in Eddie's eyes, a look he doesn’t like, one that angry and awful and infinitely sad. "Eddie, I-"

"No," Eddie snaps. "Say it. I already fucking know, Richie, I'm not an idiot, so just say it out loud. Admit it."

Richie swallows hard, Eddie's gaze making him feel bare, like he can see everything Richie is thinking. It takes a moment, a couple deep breaths, before he manages a soft, "then I'll kill myself."

And just like that, the words are said. He can't take them back.

The world shifts a little bit, slides a little further out of alignment, and Eddie makes the weird noise again, and he _crumples,_ falls into Richie's chest. "Richie," he says, and repeats it like it's the only thing he knows. "Richie. Richie, Richie."

"Hey, Eddie, it'll be alright," he soothes, pets his hair, tugs him in close. "It's ok."

"Will you stop saying that?" Eddie almost sounds mad, but it's soaked with something else, something tortured that runs it through. "Stop saying it's ok. It's not ok. It's not ok."

"It is! It's just the way it is, and it's just me anyway-"

"Oh, it's just you? What, that makes it ok?"

"I mean… yeah," Richie replies, confusion slipping into his voice. "Yeah. I'm expendable, you know, so-"

Eddie hits his shoulder hard enough to cut him off. "Shut the fuck up."

Richie blinks.

Eddie is breathing hard, shudders of it that come in and out like they’re slamming against him, and Richie wonders in the back of his mind if he needs to get his inhaler. His arms are back around Richie's waist, but they're tighter, vice-like, holding him in. "You fucking idiot," he hisses, buries his face in Richie's shoulder. "I hate you. Asshole. I hate you. I hate you. Fuck you so much." The room is filled with almost silence and shuddering breaths. "You're my best friend," Eddie says, his voice still sharp, but edged with soft sadness. "You're my favourite friend."

Richie is silent.

"I like your jokes. They're annoying, yeah. You're annoying. But you're not _annoying._ It's not a bad thing." He somehow, impossibly, pulls him in closer. "We only watched one movie last week," he confesses. "It was a funny one, one of those dumb British comedies. Everyone kept waiting, because we all knew the spots where you would have made a joke. But you weren't there." He sounds almost petulant, like a child. "You didn't even give us a reason, you just didn't show up."

"I figured-"

"I know what you figured," Eddie snaps. "But you were wrong. Bill, after the movie, he said "Richie would have liked that one," and Stan said we would watch it next time you came and it was sort of awkward for a moment and then Mike-" he stops to take a breath because he's getting too unsteady. He needs to breathe. He can’t get a full breath. "Mike said, "What if he skips next time?" and I remember thinking, "What if he skips all the rest of the times?" but I didn't say it, because Stan was already lecturing Mike, was telling him that you would be back, that you were just busy and how dare he-" Eddie gives a short, wet laugh, shaking his head. "He said, "He's my best friend, he's not going to give up on us." And I agreed."

Richie opens his mouth, but his throat feels like it's stuck with cotton. Eddie's lips land clumsily on his cheek, the smaller boy's whole body trembling as he rests against him.

"I agreed," he repeats. "Because I thought you knew how important you are to me. That I couldn't survive here without you. That I love you. I thought you knew. I'm sorry you didn't."

The silence hovers for another long, long moment before an ugly sob rips out of Richie's chest, and he crumples like wet paper into Eddie's shoulder. There's a gasp of an apology- he isn't sure who offers it, but it's lost anyway, and his whole self gives in, lets Eddie hold him and whisper in his ear, comforting things that Richie cannot comprehend. It's mumbled quickly, over and over into his ear, two arms gripping him, grounding him here to this moment, as his hail of tears rips down his mask piece by piece.

"I love you," he finds himself saying, somehow. "I'm sorry, Eddie, I'm sorry, I love you-"

Eddie kisses his ear. "I know Rich, I love you too. I love you too. You're my best friend."

There's something dark in Richie's hands, something that wants press Eddie back down, wants to tug his hair back and bruise his mouth, lick his lips apart, pull away Eddie's shirt, his shirt, _their shirt_ , and touch Eddie's skin, make it his skin, his to touch and learn, but he forces those feelings away and takes a breath deep enough to fill him all the way down to his toes. "You're my best friend," he agrees, partially so that Eddie knows and partially to remind his brain that best friends don't pin best friends below them and search for that feeling of _belonging,_ of making them whisper reverence, making them scream worship, of making them beg, of marking their skin until everybody sees how well he belongs, how well they belong together.

They're best friends, he forces himself to remember. They don't belong together, not like that.

Eddie lets out a long sigh, one that falls over Richie's shoulder, and he leans back, pulling Richie down on top of him. "You're exhausting," he mutters, rearranging them so that they can lie comfortably. Richie accepts the adjustments without complaint and gladly snuggles close once Eddie settles down. "Thinking so much. Dammit, Rich."

Richie doesn't know whether it's a joke or not and his mask of indifference is beyond shattered, so he just nods and tucks his face into Eddie's neck. He swears he hears a sharp intake of breath, but there's no movement. He probably made it up.

Eddie's hands don't stay off him for long. Richie doesn't know if that's a blessing or a curse. Either way, they come crawling back, one resting against his chest and one curling over his waist. Eddie's legs tangle with his almost absentmindedly. They fit together like pieces of a puzzle.

Eddie's hand against his chest suddenly presses insistently, and he looks up with wide earnest eyes. "This is important," he says. His palm rests open-handed against Richie's heart. "This is mine now, ok? 'Cause you're my best friend. So it's gotta keep beating."

"Blood of my heart," Richie murmurs, an old recollection of an endearment, and there might be red on Eddie's cheeks, but he might be making it up. It's hard to agree- he doesn't know why, because it shouldn't be, he shouldn't want it. He shouldn't ache with the thought of doing it. _So don't think about it,_ a voice in his head that sounds like Stan whispers, and he knows it isn't quite that easy, but he nods. "Yes, ok." His voice is slipping, the accent appearing in the cracks. Eddie must notice because he pauses and frowns in confusion, but he seems to forsake the thought, snuggling against Richie.

"Good." He says something else, but it is infinitely quiet, and Richie cannot make it out. _(I need you.)_ Or maybe he's making up the sensation of a whisper. _(I always will.)_ "Sit with us at lunch tomorrow."

Richie hesitates too long, and Eddie glares up at him. "Can I… do I have to say anything?" Eddie looks torn but eventually shakes his head slowly.

"No. Nobody's forcing you." He pauses. "I'm not forcing you, at least. Stan may be a different story." Richie barks out a disbelieving laugh and Eddie glares again. "Shut up. He loves you."

"But not as much as you, right Eds?" Richie teases, looking down at him with a grin. Eddie stares back. For a moment, he is silent.

"No," he finally says. "Not as much as me. Nobody as much as me."


	2. this feeling in my bones

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> chapter ii: the gay one
> 
> \---
> 
> "I love you, Eddie," he repeats, his voice thick. His hands clench tightly. There's some flicker of realisation in those dark eyes. "As long as I can remember Derry," he manages, "I can remember you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings:  
> -the internalized homophobia do be strong sorry lads  
> -there's some not very well written making out, so if ur squeamish about that (i feel u) then be forewarned
> 
> there is a little bit of au plot at the end. she ugly

He knows Eddie told them something. He doesn't know how much, but he also finds that he doesn't care that much. Either way, they have settled into something comfortable, and they still groan and complain and poke fun at him, but they are more open about the good nature in their eyes and he lets his mask go, just a little bit. He knows Eddie sees the difference between his real smile and his fake, because his real smile makes Eddie's face light up. It's adorable.

He should be content. He hates that he is not.

Richie hunches over himself, eyes squeezed shut, his heart beating in his ears, his fingers fisting in his hair, his muscles all tensing at once. Downstairs, there is music playing. His father has Dusty Springfield on. Richie fucking hates Dusty Springfield.

Richie hates a lot of things. He hates hot weather. He hates the dark. He hates loud noises. He hates action movies. He hates matching his socks. He hates doing his laundry. He hates the smell of roses. And newly, in the most awful way, Richie hates Eddie Kaspbrak.

It's not as though Eddie has done anything wrong. He's done nothing but be Eddie, and it's not his fault that Eddie being Eddie makes Richie the way he is. It's not his fault that he's so perfect, but Richie's chest can't contain the hatred it feels for itself, and so he hates Eddie, hates him deeply and thoroughly and through every bit of his being.

This, of course, is highly inconvenient, because the cards have been laid without Eddie's knowledge; the deck was drawn beyond Richie's consent, and now he is left with this, curling over himself on an autumn evening to tear at his hair and cry; he is crying because he hates Eddie Kaspbrak. He is crying because Eddie is the most incredible thing he knows, the most beautiful thing he can name, and his whole heart twists in revulsion. He is left with these dozens of thoughts, these twitches of his hands, and a thousand reminders of Eddie, of his best friend, of the boy he loves more than anything in the world. (God, he fucking hates him.)

Eddie is everywhere. His shirt is one Eddie had borrowed, and he never gets to wash them before he gives them back because Sonia does the laundry and sharing clothes pisses her off, but Richie never washes them before he wears them again, because he hates laundry and because it smells like Eddie. The jacket that Eddie always steals is tossed across the back of his desk chair, the textbook Eddie is letting him borrow is sitting on the floor, the cold coffee on his desk is in the mug Eddie gave him. The shoelace in his right shoe is bright red because he once had to replace it at Eddie's house and that was the only spare they could find. Even his hands- they're covered in pen, little doodles that Eddie was doing today in history when he got bored. He is surrounded by Eddie, covered in Eddie, and he can't stand it. He's going to be sick.

He hates this feeling, this warmth that floods him whenever he sees his best friend's face, this feeling like a blooming flower that fills his lungs whenever their hands brush. He thinks briefly of last week, of how they fell asleep entwined together, like they belonged together, and he remembers desperate, gasped "I love you"s and a kiss on his ear. A kiss on his cheek, too, he thinks, and it feels like he wears a scar there, so that everyone can see. See? it yells. This is where he kissed him! His best friend kissed him and he liked it, he wishes it would happen again!

That's the worst part. That's the part he hates most. He is filled to this brim with this awful yearning, a longing he cannot suppress that aches for Eddie, to be held by Eddie, to be touched by Eddie, to be kissed again and again a hundred times by Eddie and only Eddie and Eddie alone. He is, of course, in love with Eddie, that much is clear, and he feels it is clear to anyone around him, like he carries a target on his back.

He loves Eddie Kaspbrak, loves him with everything he is and could ever possibly be, and he resents that more bitterly than he knew he was capable of.

"This is mine," he remembers Eddie saying, a hand pressed against Richie's heart, and the rest of the memory is faded around that one moment. Eddie's eyes had been staring up at him, so deep and wide and earnest, and his hand had been so warm, and Richie can't quite breathe whenever he thinks of it, like it has overthrown his senses and brought him irrevocably, infinitely back to his knees. "This is mine," and he was right. Richie's heart is his, Richie's hands are his, Richie is utterly and completely his, at the mercy of a boy who doesn't know, who will never know, who doesn't want to know. Richie loves Eddie's happiness more than he loves the fantasy of his own. That fantasy is disgusting besides. It's repulsive. He's repulsive.

He doesn't want Eddie to be repulsed by him.

It's sick, the way he defines himself by Eddie, trying to meet standards that were never spoken, ones that leave him fumbling in the dark for a handhold. He does stupid things for Eddie, things he never would have cared about otherwise. He has a whole stack of shirts in his closet that he refuses to wear, because they have orange and Eddie always makes a face when he wears orange. He bought new glasses last year, under the guise of breaking the old ones (he had stomped on them, so technically it wasn't a lie), with thinner frames, ones that Eddie might not be so eager to derise. One of his Voices used to be a deep, gruff one, one he dubbed the "Prison Warden", but Eddie had flinched whenever he did it, and he hasn't tried it in years. He's not sure he remembers how.

He clears his throat and tries it. "Halt!" But his voice cracks, slips onto a pitch, tries to choke him. It's unfamiliar. He frowns, immediately feeling a wave of regret. It feels like betrayal, doing that voice, the one Eddie hates so much. It's so stupid. He's so fucking stupid.

He hates Eddie Kaspbrak so goddamn much.

\--

Movie night is at Stan's house for the first time in ages, and Richie is running late. He scrambles around his room, double checks his outfit to make sure there's no orange (freak), and shoves some snacks in his backpack. He's not sure what his hands land on. He shoves his notebook in there too, for if he's the last one awake again, and zips it up. He's wearing a pair of shorts he stole from Bev (hopefully she doesn't get too pissed), which means he has to shove his house key and pack of cigs into the front of the backpack instead, but at least they show off his legs. He'd shaved them for the first time this week, just to see if he could, but he'd also worn jeans as protection against the quickly chilling air, so none of them have seen it yet. He takes the time to cross his heart, sending a quick prayer up to whoever's listening that they won't bully him for it. He doesn't want to be called a fag tonight, thanks. He pulls on a sweatshirt, because it won't do him any good to catch a cold. Messes up his look a bit, which is annoying.

The bike ride there is short, if rather bitter on his exposed skin. He gets an odd look from a woman pruning her yard- judging his outfit, probably, but he can't find it in himself to care. Bev wore this sort of thing all the time. Why couldn't he?

(He knows the answer. He is ignoring it.)

He tosses his bike onto the Uris's lawn. Bill's truck is here. Damn. He should have asked for a ride. Bill isn't technically allowed to drive other people yet, he doesn't think, but he's been driving all of the Losers around since he got his licence anyway. Fuck the law.

Richie pounds on the door, bouncing awkwardly on his toes. His sweatshirt is too big- he stole it from Stan, he thinks. God, he's awful at returning clothes. Maybe he should just start wearing his own.

Stan pulls the door open, then stops abruptly. He's staring. Richie gives a tiny wave and an awkward laugh, but Stan doesn't pay them any mind. He squints.

"Are you wearing pants?" he asks, sounding genuinely confused, and Richie can't help but laugh again, harder.

"No, Stanley," he says, and relishes in his friend's visible bafflement for a moment before adding, "I'm wearing shorts!" very brightly. Stan relaxes.

"Oh. Ok. It's like thirty degrees, Richie, why the hell are you in shorts?"

Richie huffs. "Does it matter? It's like thirty degrees, you ass, let me in." Stan snorts and obliges, stepping aside and waving him through. Richie strips off the sweatshirt and tosses it at him with a, "here, this is yours," before bounding towards the kitchen. Bev and Bill are there, arguing over a pot, but the argument halts when Richie barges in.

Bev recovers first, crossing her arms. "Ok, first of all, those are mine, asshole," she says, rolling her eyes. Richie shrugs, peering into the pot. Ooh, cheese and mac.

"I can't believe they fit," he says, taking a moment to marvel at himself, and she snorts.

"I can. You're a fucking twig."

Richie gasps in mock offence, and Bill snatches the moment to shove him away from the stove. "Y-you're going to mess it up," he huffs. "I s-spent ages on th-this." Richie sticks his tongue out, and Bill replies in kind. Bev pokes them both.

The spoon is snatched from Bill's hand as Stan walks by, heading for the fridge. He ignores the protest from Bill, looking him dead in the eyes and licking a long strip of cheese. Bill stops dead in the middle of his sentence.

Bev raises an eyebrow as Bill's silence persists. Stan is rummaging through the fridge now, the spoon lying on the counter, but Bill hasn't moved. "Hey, weirdo, you good?" she asks, slinging him a punch on the arm. Bill seems to snap out of a trance, jolting and clearing his throat.

"Y-yeah!" he exclaims, a bit too loudly. "I'm g-great. What m-movie are w-we w-wa- w-w-" he stops, screwing up his face in frustration, and Bev pats his shoulder.

"Hey, it's ok. I got you. And I'm not sure yet, I think Eddie and Mike are still arguing about it." She glances over at Richie. "You're late, by the way."

He shrugs. "Yeah, well, I was busy."

"What, doing your makeup?" Stan asks, emerging from the fridge with a jar of pickles. Richie goes to flip him off, but pauses. Huh. Makeup. Stan glances over at him and seems to catch drift of his thoughts. "Mascara," he says, pulling out a fork from the drawer. "Not eyeshadow, it won't look good with your glasses. You turn red pretty easy, so pink blush. You don't need foundation or concealer, not with skin that clear, but you could use some anyway if you wanted. It has a nice effect." He unscrews the pickle jar. Richie is mentally taking notes. "Eyeliner is hard, but Bev's really good at it, she could help you. She has some cool dark lipsticks, too, right?"

Bev nods. "Yeah, I like the darker ones. Do you think that would work on him, though?" Stan snorts, spearing a pickle on his fork.

"Honestly," he says, shrugging, "I think Rich could pull off whatever colour he wanted."

Richie blinks, then grins. "Aw. Thanks, Staniel."

"I take it back," Stan says mildly. "Richie would only look in lipstick that was bright orange." Bev choked on a laugh, and Richie was quick to join in. Stan smirked at his own comment, but it faded when he caught Bill's eye. "You okay?" He mouthed, concerned by the look on Bill's face.

Bill nodded. "Just d-didn't know you kn-knew so much about m-makeup." Stan shrugged, taking another bite of pickle.

"Yeah, well, my sister liked to practise on me, and my mom thinks it's cool when I wear it, so you know." He looks a little uncomfortable, but it eases as Bill sidles closer to him, leaning closer under pretense of getting out a fork. "Sir, are you attempting to steal my pickles?" He asks, offended. Bill smirks.

"M-maybe I am," he replies. Their shoulders are brushing. "Wh-whatcha gonna d-do about it?"

Stan really wants to kiss him, but Bev glances their way, so he just holds out the jar and promises himself two kisses later to make up for the missed opportunity. "I am at your service."

Bill's gaze cut over to Bev and Richie, making sure they were distracted before he leant in, his lips brushing against Stan's earlobe. "M-maybe later."

Stan almost dies on the spot.

By the time Richie looks over again, Bill is leaning back against the counter casually, chewing on the pickle he'd stolen. Richie's eyebrow raises slightly at the rigidity in Stan's shoulders, but he shrugs it off. "Hey, Stan the man, didn't see your parents' car," he says, tilting his head. "They coming home?"

Stan shrugs. "Not till Tuesday. We got the house to ourselves."

"What about the mini Urises?" Bev asks, looking around as if one of them might appear from thin air. Stan shrugs. His cheeks dust lightly with pink as Bill leans against him to steal another pickle.

"Jesse is at a friend's, I think? I didn't ask."

Bev nods, then pauses. "Wait. Aren't there two?" She sounds bewildered. Stan shakes his head. "I thought there were two! Dude!"

Bill snorts, but tilts his head. "S-stop being an asshole, S-stan. There a-are two." He leans around him to grab a bottle of cola. "Also w-why are th-these on the c-counter? They'll g-go fl-flat."

"Dad doesn't like them carbonated."

"What the hell is wrong with him?" Richie asks, disgusted. Stan shrugs. "Ew. Where is Levitt, though?"

There's a distant crash. "I locked him in his room."

Bill chokes on his soda, and they devolve into laughter again, half fuelled by the smirk that spreads across Stan's face. There's another crash upstairs, but the lack of pity is immense. There's always crashing where Levitt is involved. And, well, it's a bit mean, but none of them have ever really liked him, anyway. He's hard to like.

"Hey, Richie," Stan say as off-handly, stirring the pickle juice with his fork. "You should go say hi to Eddie."

Richie blinks. "Is he ok?"

"Yeah, he's good." Stan glances up through his lashes, eyes flicking up and down Richie's body. "I just, uh… I think he'd like your outfit. That's all."

Bill nods in agreement. "I th-think h-he'll flip his s-shit," he adds, and Bev nods too, her face solemn. Richie glances between the three of them, feeling distinctly as if he is being left out of some joke. "C-come on, Rich, he'll l-love it."

Richie shrugs. "I mean, ok?" He gives them a salute and spins on his heel, heading for the living room. "Yo, Eds!"

Eddie is slumped on the armchair with his eyes closed, his hands folded across his lap. He doesn't move at the interruption, but he does smile. "Not my name, Trashmouth."

Mike and Ben are on the couch together, and Mike whistles under his breath. Ben smacks his arm lightly. "Mike, no."

"What?" Mike asks, looking offended. "I can't appreciate a view?"

Ben giggles. "Since when are you interested in Richie's ass?" Mike shrugs.

"Since, uh…" he makes a show of checking his watch. "Twenty seconds ago, maybe?" From his chair, Eddie makes a noise of disgust, eyes still closed.

"You guys are disgusting."

"You'd be disgusting too if you were looking!" Mike defended, then tossed Richie a wink. "Nice look, man."

Richie winks back and strikes a pose. "Yeah, found the shorts and figured why not. Bev didn't say she wants them back, technically, so…"

There's a moment where Eddie's face shifts, clearly processing the idea of Bev's shorts, and then his eyes shoot open. He jolts up into a sitting position. "Wha-" The word devolves into a whining noise, and he's left gaping wordlessly as Richie turns around to look at him. "I- shorts?" He squeaks. Ben and Mike are red-faced from holding back laughter. "You, uh- you-"

Richie looks concerned. "You good, Eds?"

"Yes!" His voice is an octave too high. "Yes, I'm ok!" He can feel his cheeks burning. "I just, uh- very nice shorts, Richie!" His legs are shaved, his legs are shaved, his legs are shaved, oh my God- "You, uh… yeah. Yes. Very nice."

Richie tilts his head, the concern morphing into amusement. "Thanks, Eddie Spaghetti. Put 'em on just for you." He winks, and then adds, "Taking 'em off just for your-"

"Beep beep, Richie!" all three of them chorus at once, and the room collapses into laughter. Richie shoves Eddie over so there's enough room for both of them, nestling in beside him. It takes some maneuvering, and his legs are too long, so he has to curl them up some, and one arm is tossed around Eddie's shoulders, so they're sufficiently close. Eddie tucks his face into Richie's side, which is unusual but adorable, so he doesn't comment.

(He feels himself leaning into the heat, feeding off of it, like it's filling him up to the brim with beauty, and he chokes off his smile. Fucking disgusting.)

"I like that shirt," Eddie murmurs, his fingers plucking at it. Not hard enough to tug it out from the waistband of the shorts, though. He's trying not to mess it up, Richie realises, and his smile widens inexplicably at that. "It looks good."

"You were literally wearing it last week."

"Oh." Eddie blinks. It takes him a moment, but Richie can see the recollection swell behind his eyes. The black ACDC shirt. Eddie squirms a little. "I- yeah. It's comfy." He's red, for some reason, and Richie snorts.

"Cute," he comments offhandedly, then glances towards the kitchen. "Hey! You guys coming?" Stan calls back something he can't quite make out and he takes it as affirmation. Ben has shifted, laying half across Mike's chest. The room is in comfortable silence.

The seating arrangement has to shift once the other three get there, but Eddie and Richie ardently refuse, so the couch becomes an awkward pile of bodies. Bev is perched on Stan's lap, leaning back against the armrest, and Stan is squeezed into the corner, his arm tossed around Bill's shoulders, tugging him in so that there's enough room for Mike, and then Ben, who's sort of on Mike's lap and sort of on the cushion and sort of on the armrest, stretched out in a way he definitely doesn't have room for. It looks uncomfortable, but they seem happy enough.

The movie is a romcom, one Richie's seen a thousand times, and he and Bill quote along with it, dramatically voice acting the scenes in tandem. They're much funnier than the movie itself, in Richie's opinion, and it makes their friends laugh. When Eddie laughs, he's pressed closely enough that it makes Richie's whole chest vibrate, and his heart shivers with something like adoration everytime.

He's in love.

Time gets away from them as easily as it always does, and in what seems like minutes, the clock reads three am. The TV is the only light in the room, flickering over their faces. Ben is snoring lightly, his head nestled against Mike's shoulder, and Mike's chin rests lightly on Ben's temple, deep, soft breaths falling evenly from slightly parted lips. Bev had at first managed to stretch out across all of them, but Bill had complained, so she was tucked into the space on Mike's lap that Ben didn't fill, long legs draping over the armrest and Ben's arm twined lightly around her, a hand resting on her hip. Stan's arm had at some point migrated, falling from Bill's shoulders down to his waist, and Bill's right leg is over Stan's left knee, knitting them together. Their fingers might be intertwined, if Richie is seeing right, but it's dark and he can't be fucked to care. Bill is murmuring something in Stan's ear, his voice low and rough for want of sleep, and Richie tunes it out, more interested in the boy tucked against his side.

Eddie's head tilts up under Richie's gaze, his dark eyes reflecting the light. A lazy smile spreads across his face. "Hey," he whispers, the sound hardly there.

"Hey," Richie whispers back, and they both erupt into silent giggles that shake the chair. Stan throws them a dirty look. Richie sticks his tongue out, but reluctantly relinquishes himself from the tangle of limbs and stands. He stretches and cracks his back, sighing gratefully, before he offers a hand to Eddie. "C'mon, Spaghet."

"Somehow worse than normal," Eddie replies, accepting the hand and easily following as Richie tugs him away, leading him down the hall to the front door. "Aw, Rich, it's cold as fuck out," he grumbles, but doesn't hesitate to close the door behind them. The wind rustles over them. Eddie shivers. Richie hands him the sweatshirt that Stan had left on the coat hook. Eddie slips it on and the fresh night air is suddenly much harder to breathe. It's much bigger on him than it is on Richie- it swamps him, really, and Richie can't hold his hand anymore, but he deems it an acceptable sacrifice. "What?" Eddie asks, shifting uncomfortably, and Richie realises he's staring.

"Cute," he murmurs, and Eddie flushes bright red.

"Shut up." He shifts into Richie's side.

It's silent outside, and there's nothing but the dark houses and the streetlamps and the stars, and here they are, two creations, made from stardust, existing side by side. Their breath is in tandem. Richie counts himself lucky to be existing so closely to Eddie Kaspbrak.

"Richie?"

He glances over. Eddie's face is screwed up, the way it gets when he's thinking. "Yeah, Eds?"

Eddie crosses his arms, shivering in the night air, even despite the sweatshirt. His eyes are solemn. Richie shifts awkwardly, suddenly uncomfortable.

"What's wrong, Eds?"

Eddie shrugs. "Nothing. Maybe. I don't know." He sneaks a look at Richie from the corner of his eye. "Is it time yet?" Richie blinks, staring at him. Eddie clears his throat, but his voice has dropped to a whisper as he continues. "Is it time to be honest yet?"

Oh.

Richie hums. Shrugs. Glances out at the street. He thinks for a moment that he can see the stardust dancing under their skin.

Eddie wants him to be honest. Eddie doesn't know what that means.

Richie could lie. He could say something else, anything else, deflect it off as what he meant, but… it's a gut dropping realisation, but he doesn't want to. He wants to give this secret away, push the darkness into Eddie's hands and run. It's been festering beneath his bones for too long. He needs to cut it out so that he can learn to breathe.

He is, after all, just a creation run through by stardust, his heart pumped by dead nebuli. He was just a puppet to something that lived in empty space behind the sky. What did he know of love? When he thinks of love, all he can fathom up is Eddie. Eddie is more important than any star in the sky. Eddie is sensible to hate him, and Richie is sensible enough to know that Eddie's scorn will make his heart stop beating on the spot, but so what of that? Richie deserves to die anyway. Eddie deserves honesty.

"I hate you," he says, breaking the silence, because he's an idiot. The night is silent for a moment longer, as his brain scrambles for something to add, but Eddie breaks it again before he can get anything out.

"Oh." His voice is small. It cracks. "Ok." He nods, his arms crossing tighter. "That's ok."

"That's ok?" Richie repeats, because how the hell can that be ok? If Eddie had been so desperate last week, so wild with tears, pressing those kisses to his face and saying "I love you. I love you, Rich," over and over, if Eddie has spent the whole night clinging to his side, how can it be ok? How can Eddie, sweet, wonderful Eddie, the only angel he believes in, be ok with being hated, when they both know perfection has only one definition and it's him?

"Yes," Eddie replies, nodding. His voice is trembling. "It's ok." He glances down at the ground while Richie stares at him. "I, uh- do you think Donnie and Clara still have a seat open?"

"No!" Richie's hand shoots out, closing around Eddie's arm. "No, I- fuck." He drags a hand over his face. "Fuck. Fuck, Eds." He lets his hand fall away, looking back out over the street. "I don't…"

"You just said you did."

"I said it wrong."

"How the hell do you tell someone you hate them wrong?"

Richie groans. His arms crossed over his chest tightly, his shoulders hunching forward. "It's not… Fuck. I said it wrong, ok? Give me a second, baby." The pet name slips out by accident, and he swallows hard. "I just…"

Eddie kicks the ground again. "Baby?" He repeats. "So you hate me, but I'm your baby?" He's trying to be angry, but he sounds fragile. Delicate. He's scared.

"I wish," Richie says, because he's an utter failure tonight, and Eddie frowns. "I mean-" he runs a hand through his hair, groaning. "Fuck. I fucked this up."

"You said you would be honest."

"I'm trying!" He glowers at the streetlight on the corner. "It's not supposed to be this hard."

They're both silent for a long moment. Richie is still staring down the street, until he can get his breath back under control, his body filling with calm again. It's just Eddie. He's just talking to Eddie.

"I love you," he says quietly. Eddie snorts.

"You say that all the time. I love you too, asshole."

"No, I-" Richie chokes on it, shakes his head. "Fuck, Eddie," he forces out. His voice is strangled. "I fucking love you." Eddie still doesn't get it, is still staring at him with those wide, baffled eyes, and it hurts like hell to be standing here, giving away half of himself and getting no response. This is his life, his purpose, that he is lying on the ground between them, and Eddie is still so confused, so Richie acts on impulse, gives in to everything that's blooming in him like a hurricane.

He falls to his knees.

Eddie jolts, staring down at him, and Richie lets out a long breath, his hands bracing on his thighs for balance as he looks up. A raindrop lands on his face.

Great. What a confession. Down on his knees, vulnerable, shrunken, in a three o'clock rain, with the wind and the cold rippling over him, stinging his bare skin. It should be obvious, he thinks, what he's about to say, but Eddie still stares blankly. He's so confused.

"I love you, Eddie," he repeats, his voice thick. His hands clench tightly. There's some flicker of realisation in those dark eyes. "As long as I can remember Derry," he manages, "I can remember you. For as long as I have mattered, you have been part of me. I have known you from the world since I have known myself, and I will know you for as long as I live. I will know you from the angels, Eddie, and I will see you before God." The words come easily now that he has started. Eddie's face has gone white. "If you asked me to follow you, no matter where, no matter how far, I would follow you. If you asked me to help you, I would give you everything I could. If you asked me to die, I would stop breathing, and since you asked me to live, every breath is for you." The rain strikes his face again, harder. Eddie still hasn't moved. "My ribs feel bare without you, like they've curled around a cavity, and it is you that goes there, your smile that makes my veins warm. Blood of my heart." He swallows hard. "I love you," he repeats. "As half of and more than myself, as my Paradise. As my best friend." He meets Eddie's eye, steady with calm. "You're my best friend."

Eddie remains there for exactly six seconds longer. "Richie?" he finally says, his voice weak, and Richie summons a weak smile. "Richie, you- Richie." And suddenly he sounds the way he did a week ago, repeating Richie's name again and again, like it is a prayer. He falls down across from Rich, staring at him. "Richie. Richie, Richie, Richie." His hands are wet from rain, and their finger slip together easily. "Richie," he says again, and oh, he's crying. They're both crying, actually. Fuck. "Come here," Eddie manages, tugging him, and Richie's arms slip around his waist. Their foreheads knock together. Eddie's hands are tight on his forearms. "Richie," Eddie says, and his voice is choked with disbelief, with reverence. "God, Rich." One hand slips up, a wet hand against a wet jaw, and then there's wet lips colliding together.

Richie tastes the rain. His hands latch onto Eddie's hips, tugging on him, holding him, unsure if it is too tight but knowing it is his, knowing he belongs. They belong together, together like this; they belong exactly like this, with Richie's hands on Eddie's hips, gripping him, pulling him in. With Eddie's hands on Richie's face, slipping, scraping along his jaw, tugging on him like he can get closer. With the taste of rain, flooding over them, flooding over Richie as Eddie's mouth hits his, as he licks into it and rain bursts on his tongue, as he bites gently at Ed's bottom lip and swallows the gasp he receives. They belong like this, Eddie's thumb rubbing just under Richie's ear, Richie's hands pulling Eddie onto his lap, teeth clacking together as finesse abandons them and they are left with nothing but feeling. Creatures of emotion, pushing and pulling, filling each other with the warmth they can give, belonging settling into their bones. They belong like this.

Richie jerks away, eventually, breathing harshly, and they stare at each other for a minute before he pulls Eddie against his chest. "Baby," he murmurs, and Eddie gives an exhausted laugh.

"Yeah, I'm your baby," he agrees, and Richie doesn't know what to do but kiss him again, deep and sound. "Fuck, Rich."

Richie laughs. "Fuck," he agrees, and his hand drifts along Eddie's jawbone for a moment before he shifts, reaching up. "Just a sec, I-" he frowns in concentration. It takes several tries to get it. "Here, Eds. Baby. Here you go." The necklace is delicate, but the weight of it is familiar, and his chest feels naked the moment it is off. His fingers slip awkwardly in the rain, but he manages, clipping it around Eddie's neck. "There. A promise."

Eddie looks down, messing with it. "A promise for what?" he asks curiously, and Richie shrugs. Eddie giggles a little, shaking his head. "Well, uh…" he frowns, his face twisting in thought, before he nods. He grasps at his ring, the solid band on his right hand that Richie has never seen him without, working it off his finger. It has a tan line, he notices absently, but he's more focused on Eddie grasping his hand, slipping the ring on him. "There. That's my promise."

Richie stares at a moment, and the rains pours down around him, and he grins. "I like your promise," he says, and Eddie laughs, loops an arm around his neck and tugs him in for a kiss that's more of a bite, but Richie's ok with that. "I love you."

Eddie hums, nods. "I love you too."

There's a bang, and then someone yells, "Hey, assholes!" and it occurs to Richie very suddenly that Levitt's bedroom is situated right above the porch. "Happy birthday or whatever, but can you be completely fucking homo somewhere else, maybe?"

God, Richie hates thirteen year olds. "Fuck off!" he yells back, and apparently Levitt does, because that's the end of that.

They're soaking wet by the time they go back inside- the living room hasn't shifted, except Stan's head is nestled neatly into the crook of Bill's neck, fast asleep. Bill's gaze cuts over to them as they enter, offering a small wave. "W-welcome back, co-complete fucking h-homos," he whispers, a smile twitching on his face. Richie's back stiffens, but Bill's gaze isn't malicious, and he watches Stan shift, curling against Bill's side, and he smiles back. "Go c-change. I'm s-sure S-stanley won't mind if y-you borrow s-some of his c-clothes." Stan stirs lightly at his name, but doesn't wake up.

Richie salutes. "Aye aye, Captain," he whispers, and Eddie rolls his eyes, following him up to Stan's room. Richie rummages through the drawers, humming to himself. "Get some towels?" He suggests, and Eddie's footsteps pad away down the hall.

There's a moment, as Richie turns, that he catches his reflection in the dark window; there's a moment when the thunder crashes and the whole world shifts, the shadows intensifying, the floor rank and unsteady beneath his feet. Decay has lashed across the walls, decorating the space with depravement; there is a moment, in the window, where Richie's reflection flickers into someone else.

The boy stares back. His hair is blond, streaked with grime, and his eyes are wide, filled with something like desperation. There's something familiar to the set of his jaw, Richie thinks, or the crook of his nose, or way his freckles fall on thin, sallow skin; there's something intimately known to him, there's something he ought to recognise- the voice falls onto his ears, broken and halting, a rough whisper.

"Richie?"

And then lightning flashes, the light striking through the room, and it's gone. Richie is left shaking, the clothes he had been holding on the floor by his feet. Soft light comes in from the hallway. Eddie's voice drifts into his consciousness, asking if he's alright.

He's alright.

Eddie is here, he reminds himself, and the Dark is not, and the ring is a gentle weight on his finger. The clock reads 3:49. He's alright.

(It is fourteen months later, at 3:49, that he gets the call.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ya i dumped random foreshadowing whatcha gonna do
> 
> everyone who read this owns my entire heart i love u ♡ comment n stuff n come hmu at @theworriedman on tumblr for some bad conversational skills and random writing snippets i post
> 
> stick around for the rest of the series, yeah?

**Author's Note:**

> god i fucking hate doing italics on here why do i always include them
> 
> yes this is part of a series no it does not affect the plot of that series yes there will be a chapter two no i am not sorry
> 
> lmao idk if anyone is gonna read this tbh but if you do then god bless you and i love you!!!!! come bother me on tumblr @theworriedman i am lonely and love the Children


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